


the courage of stars

by monkkeyslut



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/F, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-13 23:21:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7142360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monkkeyslut/pseuds/monkkeyslut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here is something they do not tell you: that happiness and peace can come in the strangest of packages, but when you find them, they are yours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the courage of stars

**Author's Note:**

> So this started as a 50 sentences challenge, but I had so much fun that I turned them all into drabbles instead. ACOMAF was incredible and I had so much fun writing this, so I hope you enjoy. There are a handful of different pairings in this, so if you find one you don't like, skip it. :)
> 
> Title taken from Sleeping At Last's song "Saturn".  
> The vows in the 47th drabble are borrowed in part from The Originals.

**01 - Motion**

Sometimes, Rhysand can’t help but watch the motion of Feyre’s hand as she paints; how even the simplest of movements bring out something beautiful.

It isn’t even just when she’s painting. Feyre has a way about her, speaking in movements more often than words, and it has taken Rhysand far longer than he likes to have realized this. Her hands, her fingers--they are so often the loudest part of her.

When she is annoyed or angry, those fingers will curl into white-knuckled fists, or they will ruin a table or chair from how hard she grips it. When she is overwhelmed or breathless with desire, he will sometimes wake in the morning to find bruises in the shapes of her hands along his shoulders, nail marks down his back.

He finds himself watching them more and more; how they will dance at the sound of music, how they will trace patterns into his arm while they listen to someone speak. How they will flinch toward a weapon at her belt at the slightest hint of unease.

But when she paints...that is his favorite. The curl of her wrist, the flicker of her hand. The way colours and shapes spiral out beneath the paint brush reminds Rhys that what he is fighting for is worth it.

Rhysand also finds that her hands are useful for other things. He cherishes the motion of those hands on his tense muscles. He loves the way they feel pressed to his cheek, or feathering along his jaw. He could die happily by those hands, he thinks.

“What are you doing?” Feyre snaps, eyeing him suspiciously. Rhysand blinks at her, then at the painting she botched so she could draw him with wide, ridiculous eyes. “Stop staring at me. Actually, get out of here while I’m painting.”

Smirking, he says, “I thought you liked having inspiration?”

“I’ve used you for inspiration,” she tells him, gesturing at the painting beside her. He scowls at it. “Now I could use you to fetch me a drink. Would you, Rhys?”

He rolls his eyes at the saccharine sound of her voice, but pushes to his feet nonetheless. “As you wish, High Lady.”

Her answering smile warms him.

 

**02 - Cool**

The pool is blissfully refreshing as Feyre lowers herself into it, a sigh escaping her lips; she does not miss the way Rhysand’s breath hitches at it.

The water around her is so clear that she can see straight down to the ashy, white sand on the bottom. It’s beautiful in the forest of the Night Court, close enough to their cottage in the mountains that she can get away with being naked here. She relaxes into the pool, pushing herself lazily toward the centre of it.

“I could get used to this,” she declares airily, floating on her back. Rhysand is still watching like a pervert at the edge of the pool, his pants slung low on his hips. Feyre eyes them, then him, with a look that clearly says: come in here.

He blinks at her, then shucks off his pants in one easy movement. Feyre flushes the the speed in it and dunks herself below the water, listening to the sound of him making his way in. When she surfaces again, water dripping into her face, she asks, “There isn’t anything strange in this water, right?”

“What do you mean?”

Feyre thinks of a pool of starlight, the promise of being eternally happy, then changes her mind. “Nothing. Come here,” she beckons with a curl of her fingers. “I’m feeling significantly cooler now. I could use some warming up.”

Rhysand looks positively delighted at that, and allows Feyre to snatch his wrist and haul him forward.

 

**03 - Young**

Lucien is often astounded at how vibrant, how full of life Elain can be--and his heart aches at the thought of her losing that joy.

They are in Velaris for the first time in months, and Elain has a glow to her that she didn’t have before, face brightening considerably upon seeing Nesta and Feyre, who had been bickering back and forth until they too spotted Elain.

The sky above them is darkening, and though they have been there less than a day, Lucien can already tell that Elain feels at home with her sisters in a way she will never be with him.

She wears her youth more than her sisters. Elain is the middle child but she looks like the baby; her smiles are too easily given, her heart too easily won. The cauldron stole her human life but not her humanity or innocence, and Lucien is not sure whether he should be grateful for that or not.

Regardless, Lucien finds the more time he spends with her, the more he needs her. Elain’s kindness is unending; he loves her and wants to be around her, because she makes him happy. Perhaps it is the bond speaking, or maybe just him, but Lucien finds that the sadness in his heart is not so all-encompassing when she turns that sweet smile onto him.

 

**04 - Last**

“This is the _last time,”_ Feyre snarls, tugging her shirt straight and ignoring Rhysand’s lazy smirk as he surveys the empty lingerie shop. Several different scraps of lace litter the ground, some ruined, and Feyre scowls at it all, a fierce blush heating her cheeks.

Thank the Cauldron that the shopkeeper and her employees aren’t gossips, because Feyre is sure she and her High Lord would be the talk of the town if they were. What was this, the third time they had come in here, under the pretense of trying things on?

It had been fun at first, luring him in here after a long day of wandering around the Rainbow, the sun beating down relentlessly from above. Her cheeks had been sunburnt but she had wanted to try on the pretty white nightdress in the window and...

Well the second time they had both been annoyed with the other over some stupid thing. She had come in to try something particularly devastating on, and he had found her in that small change room, eyes falling to the green lace and satin covering her.

They needed to stop doing this--it _would_ be the last time.

“I really liked that purple bit,” Rhysand drawls from behind her. She turns in time to see him buckling his belt, the sight sending something electric down her spine. Grimacing, Feyre twists to see the purple undergarments strewn across the small couch, considering.

“I kind of liked the gold, myself,” she mutters, heat flaring as Rhysand’s hand slides around her waist.

“We could test them out again?”

Feyre considers once more, then nods. _Next_ time would be the last.

 

**05 - Wrong**

“I’m not arguing with you,” Mor says breezily. “I’m just saying you’re wrong.”

Feyre casts her a glare, but then turns back toward the mud pit, where Rhysand, Azriel, and Cassian are currently sparring. On her left, Mor watches with a half-lidded gaze, her lower lip pulled between her teeth. Feyre can’t tell who the other Fae is watching.

To Feyre’s right, Amren snores lazily, a towel over her face as the rest of her bakes in the sunlight. Though she’s tiny, the woman reminds Feyre of a sleeping dragon. And as much as she wants to wake Amren up to be the tiebreaker, she knows better than to wake a dragon.

“Power-wise,” Feyre said eventually, wincing as Rhys was thrown, laughing, into the ground. “Rhys would win.”

“Azriel and Cassian together could take him,” Mor counters, laughing aloud as Cassian cheers, sweeping Azriel’s feet out from underneath him. Their laughter and taunts echo around them, and despite herself, she smiles.

Feyre opens her mouth to argue when Amren growls awake beside her. Before Feyre can blink, Amren is in the middle of the mud pit and each male is on his back.

“I feel like that’s cheating,” Mor murmurs, but then shrugs. “At least we know who would win.”

 

**06 - Gentle**

Amren has not had much use in her life for gentleness.

Throughout her existence (she cannot say life--this is not a life, living in a meat suit, too small to do anything real, too insignificant and far from home to make a difference), Amren had clawed and torn her way through one world into the next. She was not made to be gentle, and yet.

And yet there is Nesta, who was made to be gentle. Who was made to be a pretty girl meant for a pretty boy meant for a nice home and several children. A girl who the world spit on and made bleed; a girl who took from the cauldron more than it was willing to give.

Nesta was never allowed to be gentle or kind, and Amren sees herself and more in that. Nesta is rage contained in a human-- _Fae--_ body, and Amren _likes_ that.

With Cassian, Nesta is too sharp. He is angry about his wings and in love with Mor and dedicated to Rhys, so there is no room in his heart, truly, for Nesta.

But Amren has always been bigger than her body, and finds that gentleness comes easy with the newly Made. Her fingers are not claws as they shift brown-gold hair behind her ear; her mouth not curved sharp and angry when she presses it to Nesta’s.

Neither of them were made with gentle things, but they find it in each other all the same.

 

**07 - One**

One is a lonely number, but at the beginning that is all there is.

At the beginning, there is only Amren and the darkness. Only the emptiness of her new body, the hollowness inside her. She is trapped in a world that is not her own, confused in a way she has never been, and bound to a body she will never understand.

So many years pass. Wars rise up, and kingdoms fall and Amren watches, silent and angry. She wants to go home, she wants to ruin the world, she wants _want wants_ but cannot _have_.

Until Rhysand.

Until a man with the wings of a lesser Fae and the face of a High Fae comes to her and offers this: a chance to live again.

She accepts, because she would be a fool not to. Does not expect the friendship that comes out of it. Does not expect the truth-teller with a smile like a sword and heart of gold, or the winged soldiers who grin easier than men with their pasts should. She does not expect the Fae female with a human heart, or her beautiful, cutting sister.

Amren is still one; she is one of a kind, but more than that she is her own person. And she finds that she prefers this world of light and magic to the one she left behind.

 

**08 - Thousand**

The bed is warm, soft. Mor feels safer than she ever has, nestled between Cassian and Azriel, who sleep soundly beside her. They are all curled together somehow, and she is marvelled that they all seem to fit. Azriel’s wings and Cassian’s large barrel chest and her long legs are all pieces of a puzzle, and it has taken five hundred years to sort it out.

Incredible, that it took so long for them to realize that nobody had to have their heartbroken. They could all be happy, and would be happy, together. In fact, they had always been happiest together.

Az presses his face against her hair, murmuring softly in sleep, while Cassian’s hand tightens on her hip, shifting until it touches Azriel’s.

She loves them, her boys. She would kill for them, die for them, destroy the world for them. Mor wonders, absently, if you can mate with more than one person, because she has never felt like this before. Never felt this pressure in her chest, like her heart might beat through her ribs. She wonders if they feel the same.

Then decides they must, because surely Az would not put up with Cassian’s horrible, loud snoring, or Mor’s cold feet. Cassian would not deal with her overly chipper moods in the morning, or Azriel’s meticulous grooming.

It must be love, Mor knows, because she would fight a thousand more wars if only to have the chance to wake up with them.

 

**09 - King**

Nesta feels at once tired and rejuvenated. Her fingers ache, and her body is soaked in something that is not water, and when she looks at the coward who sits on a throne and calls himself king, she decides he will die first.

 

**10 - Learn**

It is three months and eight days before Feyre realizes that she has slept soundly, without a nightmare in that length of time. She can remember the last nightmare she had--Nesta and Elain being pushed into that Cauldron and not coming out--but she can’t think of a time since then.

The bed is soft and comforting, and Rhysand’s side is still warm, like he only just woke up. Feyre can hear the sounds of him moving around in the bathing room, humming quietly to himself.

It is a nice feeling, she realizes, stretching out along the bed, to not wake up with something horrible curling in your gut. To be able to walk into a cave or underground without feeling like the darkness is going to swallow you whole. To see the colour red and not flinch.

Even nicer, Feyre muses as Rhysand strolls from the bathing room, pants slung low on his hips, is how light she feels. The Feyre of before would still be a hollow thing, aching with sadness. But she has learned to move beyond that sadness--to acknowledge it and accept it and move _on._

She shifts, and Rhysand pauses where he looks through his drawers, turning to look at her. His eyes fall on her, and the smile on his face has her beckoning him back to the bed.

 

**11 - Blur**

Everything is a blur of colour at first. Brilliant blues, reds, yellows. It is so startling, so overwhelming that Elain feels she might cry.

Her gown is soaked through, the white of it becoming transparent, baring her to the crowd surrounding her. Gods, what had she done to deserve this? What had she--why had Feyre--

But no, no, it wasn’t Feyre’s fault, Elain knew. She and Nesta...they had agreed to help Feyre. They were the reason she went beyond the Wall in the first place.

Someone helps her stand, and she is too overwhelmed still to know who it is. Her fingers grapple for purchase on the male’s arm, her chest heaving with barely restrained sobs. Everything feels different, as though she were not herself. She almost feels the way she did when she was younger and had the spins, unable to comprehend anything around her, unable to eat or think or relax--

Screams. Loud, feral shrieks that send every hair on Elain’s body up. Nesta. Feyre, too, screaming, begging them not to--

_What is happening to me?_ Elain wants to ask. Her mind spins. The iron on her finger does not hurt, and she wants to laugh at it. An iron ring for a Fae wife--

Fae. Gods, she was Fae.

She looks up, blinking, when the sound dies down and her eyes catch on red that slowly melts into auburn, and then hair. Her eyes lift to the eyes of the male, one golden eye--no, a metal eye--whirring as it meets hers.

Something pulls tight, and the world shifts into focus.

 

**12 - Wait**

“What is it?” Rhys asks, suspicious.

Feyre smirks, turning her back to him as she works on her soup. “Can’t I just cook my husband and mate a nice dinner?”

“No. You hate cooking.”

Feyre glared at the pot in front of her, proof that she did indeed hate and absolutely fail at cooking. Still, she wanted tonight to be nice, and breaking the news over a nice dinner with candles burning and a beautiful breeze from outside would be perfect. Rhysand just needed some patience.

“For your information,” Feyre snaps, tasting the soup and barely holding back a wince. “I just don’t do it often. I’m _lazy_.”

The soup is horrible but maybe with a little more salt...

Rhysand is behind her seconds later, hands sliding to cup her hips, pulling her flush against him. Feyre closes her eyes. “That looks absolutely foul. Can’t we just go out?”

“You just got back from the camps,” Feyre pouts, looking at the soup. It’s a little green and she doesn’t think tomato soup should be that colour. “I wanted to do something nice for you before I surprised you.”

He had been gone for a month and a half, long enough that Feyre had considered joining him, if only she didn’t have to run things here in Velaris and go between Courts. It had been so wonderful to see him when he first walked through the door that she had immediately burst into tears.

It wasn’t her finest moment, but who could blame her? It had been a very stressful few weeks.

Distracted in thought, Feyre doesn’t notice Rhysand’s hand sliding up her torso until he stops just below her breasts with a confused sound. She freezes, but he runs his hand down her stomach again, hand tightening against the subtle bulge.

“Surprise?” She tries. Before she can think twice, the stove is turned off and she is being spun around, Rhysand dropping to his knees before her.

She is almost indignant when he lifts her shirt, inspecting her stomach with his violet gaze. As if he needs to see that she is getting _fatter_ with his own eyes. “When?” He asks, and Feyre flushes happily at the awe in his voice.

“A few weeks ago,” she shrugs, smiling at the gentle hand he strokes across her belly. “I wanted to wait until I saw you in person to tell you the good news.”

His eyes flicker up to hers for a moment. “You’re alright with this, then?”

“Of course,” she nods. Feyre cards a hand through his hair, quietly hoping their child will have it too. A little girl with thick black hair and blue-grey eyes. A little boy with wings and freckles like starlight. “And you?”

The smile he gives her is so worth the wait.

 

**13 - Change**

Being Fae is different for each of them.

The anger in Nesta is still there. Anger at herself, at Feyre, at her father, at the world: it’s all still there, boiling and dark. Only this time, Nesta can use it to her advantage. This Fae body may not have been one she wanted, but it comes with things she could have never dreamed of. There is power and strength in these bones.

For Elain, it is a matter of guilt. How many times had she looked at the Fae and thought: _please leave me alone? Leave my family alone, leave my village and friends alone._ How many times had the people in her life and village told her that Fae were evil? She feels endlessly guilty, now, that she is this monster. That she is just another thing that can and had been used to hurt Feyre, who had done so much for her.

But there is also this: they are not alone. Feyre would not let them be, and with her come the ragtag family that she now has. She is there on the nights where they both wake up and feel as though they were drowning, crawling into the bed beside them the way they used to for warmth. Her smiles are easier, now, and they find that they can return them.

Elain tries to ease her guilt by learning everything she can about the Fae, about their customs. She likes Mor and quiet Azriel, and the letters she gets from Lucien are something she grows to look forward to.

Nesta wields her wild anger into a blade with Cassian, sharper than it was as a human and twices as deadly. She learns to grow and simmer the rage in her belly with Amren, whose darkness comforts her in ways that Feyre’s warmth in a bed never will.

They will heal, and grow, and change. They have eternity to do it.

 

**14 - Command**

The worst part about loss, Cassian finds, is not the losing itself. It is the after, when you forget for a moment that you have lost something. It is the crushing, horrible reality of that loss hitting you again, and again, and again.

What is an Illyrian soldier without his wings? They cut the wings of females, or they did, so they could not take the skies. So they could not know the joy of wind in your hair and an endless road ahead of you.

What is an Illyrian soldier without his wings? Nothing.

Cassian can no longer command armies from the air. His importance, his usefulness has run out. Rhysand would never say that, but Cassian knows it to be true. His friend loves him, but has no use for a bastard born Illyrian soldier who cannot fly, who can barely grasp his own power now because there is a constant ache between his shoulder blades.

Amren had done her best, but there was nothing to save. He had done the rest, sawing the stumps off in a fit of rage and delirium, and when he had woken again, his back was bandaged and Rhysand had looked at him with such pity, such heartbreak...

Now, he sits in the cottage, back against the couch as he surveys the paintings Feyre did, his own eyes watching him from down the hall. The bottle beside him is empty, but it did little to ease the pain in his back or his chest.

It must have muddled his mind somehow, though, because one second he is looking at a pattern of vines, and the next he is on his side, looking at Rhysand and Azriel’s boots.

They haul him to his feet, steady him when he stumbles. Another thing he is not used to: being so unbalanced.

“Why are you here?” He croaks, leaning against the couch, eyeing the two of them with mistrust. Couldn’t they have just left him in peace? His throat hurts from not using it, and his mouth tastes like the inside of the Attor, but he doesn’t have it in him to care.

“We’re worried for you,” Azriel speaks softly, in his quiet way that used to make Cassian feel comfortable. Now it just hurts, because he knows they’re worried, of course he does. But he can’t fly and he didn’t save Feyre or her sisters and...

Rhysand pulls him close, aware of the impending break down, and Cassian clings to him, reaches out for Azriel, too. They are his friends and he loves them, but Cauldron he feels terrible. “I need,” he gasps, unable to catch his breath, “I need you to--”

“What?” Rhysand rasps, “tell us what to do.”

“Command me,” Cassian hiccups a sob, fingers tight enough to bruise them. “Command me to fight. Tell me to get better.”

“I can’t,” Rhysand tells him, sounding so very defeated. “You have to want it.”

He does want it. More than anything, he wants to feel normal again. He wants to _fly._

“But we can help you,” Azriel whispers, bringing his hand up to cup the back of Cassian’s neck. His thumb moves softly over the skin there, and the male’s eyes burn into his. “We _will_ help you.”

_What is an Illyrian soldier without his wings?_ Cassian thinks, surrounded by these males who have been with him through everything. _Not alone._

 

**15 - Hold**

“I’m really sorry,” Feyre whines earnestly, rubbing her thighs together.

Rhysand frowns down at the elaborately carved bedpost she had torn off, looking far too heartbroken and distracted when she was naked and ready right in front of him. “I didn’t think I would break it off just by squeezing it.”

The ache between her legs is getting more and more urgent, and she nudges him with a toe. “I’ll find someone to carve it again, just come back here.”

His hold on the bedpost tightens, and when he looks up at her he looks so dejected that she sinks back into the pillows, throwing an arm over her eyes.

“It was an antique.”

“ _You_ told me to hold on tight.”

“Not to _break things.”_

When she peeks at him again, she notes that his erection is gone. “Are you serious?”

“Well you nailed me in the face with it,” Rhysand snaps with some embarrassment. “I think I can be excused, High Lady.”

Feyre rolls her eyes and reaches for her nightgown on the floor. Something in her had said that having sex while he was drunk would not turn out the way she wanted it to. She hates when that something is right.

 

**16 - Need**

Amren watches the girl at the balcony edge, how her shoulders and spine are stiff and straight, how her face is pointed south, like perhaps she can see her old home beyond it. Amren knows so little about this girl who came angrily into their lives, but she knows the look on her face and how it feels to mourn a home you never really loved.

Or maybe one you loved too much.

Making her way over to Nesta, Amren allows the balcony doors to slide shut behind her. Nesta looks toward her briefly, before turning her gaze back toward the horizon.

“Not enjoying the festivities?” Amren asks, leaning absently against the railing. Nesta’s chin is up and her mouth is twisted in a pretty scowl.

“Too many Fae,” Nesta murmurs, though there is a bite to it. “It still unnerves me.”

“Elain seems to be getting on just fine,” she says, and watches the way Nesta’s mouth tightens, how her eyes harden.

“She’s always been better at getting used to things. I think she wanted a party, if only to have something to do or plan.”

“And you?” Amren muses, silver eyes daring Nesta to meet. Blue-grey eyes flicker down, stay there. “What do you need?”

“I didn’t say need. I said want.”

“What’s the difference?” Amren asks with a feral grin.

But Nesta does not grin, or show amusement at Amren’s attempt at...what? Flirting? She has been around Cassian far too much lately, honestly.

“It is alright to want,” Amren says eventually, turning to leave the balcony, to get away from this strange girl who has her so twisted up and annoyed inside. “I wanted to go home, once.”

“And now?” Nesta asks, when Amren is nearly at the double doors. Sound from inside drifts out, but Amren hears it well enough.

Amren thinks of her family, of her home, of this monster in a Fae body, and says, “I’m not sure what I want. What do you want, Nesta?”

She does not turn back to the other girl, but she can feel those piercing eyes on her, can feel the tentative note under the strong, sleek words. “Not sure yet. Maybe you can help me.”

Amren doesn’t smirk, but it’s a near thing. When she looks over her shoulder, Nesta’s eyes are glinting with something fierce.

 

**17 - Vision**

When Elain was younger, she used to dream up fantastic, wonderful fantasies of her life. She would make up stories about how she would meet her husband, how he would woo her and ask her to marry him. Her home would be large and beautiful, the gardens around it blossoming. Nesta and Feyre would be happy, too, and she would have three little girls just like them.

She had been naive--Elain knew it when she lived in that cottage, useless and horrible, and she knew it when a man put an iron ring on her finger--but it had been nice. An escape from poverty, from Nesta and Feyre’s constant fighting.

Then, her life had been parties and frilly dresses, true love and a happily ever after.

Now, it is this: writing Lucien letters and becoming his friend. Curing that horrible, gaping sadness inside him. It is Azriel, who walks with her through Velaris, her arm tucked neatly in his, his voice serene as he explains things.

It is Feyre, and the absolute _joy_ that radiates off her like a glow; Nesta, and the careful way she hones her new abilities, takes chances that she wouldn’t have before.

It is Elain herself, growing to like this body and this new world that she sees around her. When she had pictured her future, Elain saw herself as a wife, a mother. Now, she can see that one day she might be those things, but right now, she is just happy.

 

**18 - Attention**

Rhysand is sure she doesn’t mean to, but he can’t help but think his High Lady is taunting him.

The cottage they are staying in this weekend--close to the sea and big enough for a group of them-- _isn’t_ big enough that they can...take care of each other without being completely obvious. And for all her wildness inside and outside the bedroom, Feyre refuses to have sex where her sisters can hear.

So it has been a long three days, and as they all lounge around the beach, sunning themselves and swimming, Rhys can’t take his eyes off of her.

Her swimwear is tight, flattering, and the way she keeps bending over to reach the disc she casually _didn’t catch_ has him flushing red. The way she looks over her shoulder with a sweet smile has Cassian howling with laughter beside him.

“Fuck _off,”_ Rhysand growls, shifting on the large blanket they had laid out along the beach. Several yards away, Nesta launches the disc toward Amren blindingly fast. Elain lets out a loud, happy laugh and Mor joins in after her as Amren launches to tackle Nesta into the waiting surf. Elain begins to splash Mor in kind and in the ensuing chaos, Feyre slips away.

But not before she gives Rhys an innocent, questioning look. The _tease._

Cassian, too distracted by the other Females, and Azriel, with a towel over his face, do not notice Rhysand slip away also, scenting after Feyre.

He finds her about a mile away, squatting in front of a bush with pretty red berries.

“Those are poisonous, you know,” Rhys drawls, leaning back against a large oak tree, crossing his arms over his chest. It is almost ridiculous, how much he wants her right now. He can’t remember wanting another person this much since he was young. Feyre straightens, a scowl on her face.

“No kidding,” she begins, but Rhys has her pinned to a tree in seconds, jerking at the low, happy laugh she lets out. “Wow. Someone is impatient.”

“And _someone,_ ” he drawls, running his nose along the line of her neck. “Is looking for attention. Have you really missed me this much?”

“Your considerable wingspan,” Feyre quips, fingers finding the strings keeping his pants around his hips. “Maybe that mouth of yours, when it isn’t blabbering on about nothing.”

Rhysand grins, sharp and brilliant, before he puts his mouth to better use.

 

**19 - Soul**

Feyre is still tearing up a little bit, eyes misty after the performance as she and Rhysand walk toward the townhouse. The play had been one of love and loss and happiness; it had absolutely been sappy and Rhysand probably had only gone because she asked him to, but still. Where was his heart? His _soul?_

The emotions on the face of the main character as her love died...Cauldron boil her, but she felt like Elain.

Sniffling, Feyre asked in a croaking voice, “Did you like it?”

Rhysand cast her an amused look, and his arm came across her shoulders. Feyre leaned against the warm heat of him. She did have to admit, the play had hit home a little more than she thought it would, but it had been so good. Maybe she should suggest it to Mor and Elain, or even take them herself. It was also completely possible that her current condition was making her more emotional than usual. She rubbed a hand over the bulge in her stomach, growing bigger and bigger everyday.

When she looks back up at Rhys, he still looked amused. Like he might burst into laughter at her expense at any moment. Feyre scowled up at him, pinching his side. “Did you?”

“Of course, darling,” Rhysand purred, leaning down to press a quick kiss to her temple. He dodged away from her pinching fingers the second time. “Maybe something a little less...heart wrenching, next time?” He pulls a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, dangling it as he walks before her. Feyre winnows behind him and kicks his legs out, leaving him sprawled along the cobblestones, laughing, as she marches up the hill.

 

**20 - Picture**

Feyre finds it accidentally (and by that, she means she was snooping through his drawers for her birthday gift) and for the briefest moment, her heart stops.

Only, the picture--painted so beautifully that her breath catches--is not one of some long lost lover; the girl in the portrait has Rhysand’s eyes and his cunning smile. Feyre is blown away by how similar she looks to Rhys that she wonders, distantly, if people often thought they were twins. Her sun-darkened skin and brilliant hair are captured in a way that makes Feyre wonder how the artist managed to capture something so beautiful into one single frame.

Rhysand doesn’t talk about her much, but she remembers the wings hung above Tamlin’s bed, kept _fresh_ through some sort of horrible spell. Feyre thinks of her own sisters, and how her heart broke when their heads were shoved under dark, magic waters, remembers the sheer panic and uselessness of the situation, how she could not help. She wonders if Rhysand feels the same way; wonders if he looks at this beautiful picture and thinks of a little sister he couldn’t save. Probably, knowing him.

Feyre looks at the picture one last time before she tucks it back in its hiding spot, vowing to one day ask Rhysand to tell her about his gorgeous sister and her Illyrian wings.

 

**21 - Fool**

“Unbelievable,” Mor snarls, pacing back and forth across the carpet like an angry mother. “Un-fucking-believable! How old are you three?!”

Feyre watches in shocked amusement as Rhysand, Azriel, and Cassian all look scolded at Mor’s tone. Their battered, bloodied, and bruised faces make them look even more guilty, and Feyre muffles a laugh into her shoulder.

Twenty minutes ago, Feyre didn’t think they would be able to be in the room without wanting to rip each other a part, but now they leaned into one another, shying away from the angry blonde woman currently ripping them new assholes.

“And if you think that just saying you’re sorry will do you any good, have you idiots got another thing coming. You’re _lucky_ I didn’t break any bones when I pulled you apart because--”

“Males,” Amren sighs beside Feyre, shaking her head. Feyre snorts. “So stupid.”

 

**22 - Mad**

More often than not, Nesta finds Elain wrapped around her in the morning, her younger sister’s face serene and calm in the early morning light. Sometimes, she will wake and find Elain watching her, eyes bright and sad. Sometimes, Nesta will have to wake up and hold Elain against her chest while the other girl sobs.

Now, she blinks her gummy eyes open, lashes sticking together from tears and sleep. Elain is watching her, lips wobbling as she pets Nesta’s hair back from her face. Elain looks healthy and warm, like Velaris is doing her wonders. She looks happy, and it makes Nesta feel like a failure.

Her face still hurts from where Feyre lashed out on her yesterday. Their mother’s eyes stared back at Nesta with shock and apologies brimming, but Nesta had stormed away, back to her room at the small apartment Rhysand had given her and Elain. She did not want Feyre to see the rage on her face, set in her bones; did not want to hurt Elain more than she already has.

Twisting away from Elain, Nesta watches the curtains sway in the light breeze. Elain’s hand begins to drift softly up and down her back, and Nesta is too tired to tell her to leave.

“I wish you weren’t so angry all the time,” Elain murmurs eventually, her voice sorrowful in a way Nesta has only heard once or twice before. “You’ve done enough for me.”

_No,_ Nesta thinks savagely, shutting her eyes against the tears blurring her vision. _No, I haven’t. I let you get turned into this **thing**. I let them come into our home. I let Feyre hunt, I let her go, I--_

“If you want me to be happy,” Elain’s voice is quiet but firm. “Let me go. I don’t...you’re so angry all the time, Nesta. But you don’t need to be, and I don’t need protecting anymore. We have people who care about us, people who--”

“Just because they put us up,” Nesta snarls, voice thick with tears, back still to Elain. “Does not mean they care. Feyre, maybe, but the others...” she trails off, biting her lip hard enough to hurt. They do care, she knows. But she wishes they didn’t, because it would be easier. Sometimes she wants to let go of this horrible weight, this anger, but she _can’t._ How many times has Nesta been let down? How many times has she let _Feyre_ and _Elain_ down? She must be strong so they can be weak, so they can be happy without the burden of--of--

“I’m leaving,” Elain tells her, and she is no longer lying beside Nesta. Her feet hit the carpet and Nesta stiffens. “I’m travelling with Mor for a while.”

The sob that bursts from her is painful, horrible. She wants to say: _please don’t leave me,_ but she doesn’t. She _won’t._ If Elain wants to go, that’s her decision.

“Please don’t be upset,” Elain is crying too, and Nesta’s sobs begin to slow into little gasps. “I love you, Nesta. And I appreciate everything you have done for me, but you need to be happy.” And then, quieter, like when they were smaller and it was only them. “Please don’t be angry.”

And she...she isn’t. Nesta isn’t angry at Elain; in fact, she doesn’t even think she’s been _truly_ angry in a long time.

When Elain lays back down beside her, wrapping an arm tight around her, Nesta exhales a long, weary sigh.

“I don’t know what I’ll do if I’m not looking after you,” she admit after a while, breathing still shaky.

She can feel Elain smile--her whole body changes with it--and she says, with quiet hope, “You can live.”

 

**23 - Child**

Feyre thought, several hours into labour, that she would not like the child once it was out of her. There was absolutely no way she could love something that was trying to rip her apart, or that would make her suffer for so long. She figures,  as she now holds the small little bundle in her arms, that she was overreacting, just a little bit.

“I think I will keep you,” she whispers, pressing her mouth to the curling black hair on her daughter’s head.

Rhysand shifts behind her, and if Feyre were not absolutely exhausted, she might be disgusted on their behalf. Neither of them have moved since Mor and her sisters left the room nearly an hour ago, just content to lean against each other and rest.

“I would certainly hope so,” Rhysand murmurs, pressing a warm, chapped kiss just behind her ear. “It took forever to put her in there.”

Feyre huffs a pained laugh, watching their daughter sleep, looking far too peaceful for the horrible ruckus she caused not an hour earlier. “You can have the next one, if you’d like,” Feyre teases, pulling the baby closer to her chest. Her eyes feel so heavy, and Rhysand is so warm that she thinks she might just pass out here, blissful.

Rhysand’s arms shift to accommodate Feyre’s slackening ones, nestling the baby more tightly against them. His voice is barely more than a whisper of night against her ear, “The next one?”

“Mmm,” Feyre hums, twisting her head enough that she can press her lips to Rhysand’s jaw. She feels his face change as he smiles.

“I love you,” is the last thing she hears before she falls asleep, and she thinks she says it back, from the tightening of his arms around her, and the damp heat against her cheek.

 

**24 - Now**

Elain wakes gasping, the sheets around her soaked through. For a moment, she feels like she’s just fallen from the Cauldron, the darkness around her shifting into light, the water so cold it burned. But then she realizes that the dampness she feels is sweat and her face heats.

Hair sticks to her face in matted clumps. Her chest feels so tight that she can’t pull enough air into her lungs, can’t catch her breath. It feels like there is water surging into her nose, her throat, but she knows that there is not. She is in a bed, but it feels like the cold stone of a palace floor. The body beside her, tense and waking, feels like the one that held her, shoved her down.

Her breath comes in gasping sobs and she scratches at the blankets beneath her, kicks the blankets off above her and panics more when she realizes her nightdress has risen up in the night. _Gods,_ she thinks, mind clouding over, seeing the infinite black of the cauldron and the soft yellow of the canopy above her.

A hand presses lightly over her eyes, the skin cooling her heated skin. Another hand presses against her chest right over her heart, and Lucien’s calm voice in her ear says, “Where are you, right now?”

His hand moves from her chest to her hand, picking it up to press it against his own heart before he puts his own back. She feels the rise and fall, the steady beat beneath. _Where am I, where am I, where am I?_ Somewhere, Nesta is shrieking and cursing, but the sound of her sister’s voice and her own fingernails breaking on the inside of the Cauldron fall away slowly.

“I...” Elain takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I am in the Autumn Court,” she says shakily. “I am in the guest wing of the Autumn Court’s palace.”

She can feel Lucien’s head move on the pillow beside hers. “Yes. You’re safe, Elain.”

“Nesta--”

“Back in Velaris,” Lucien answers calmly, and finally removes his hand. Elain blinks, little tears dripping down her face as she stares up at the canopy. Then, she looks at Lucien, eyes scanning his face. His metal eye is hidden partially by the pillow, but she focuses on it anyway.

The damp sheets and her nightdress are cold now, and Lucien pulls her toward him, tucking Elain up against him. She is still so awed at how well they fit together, like they were made to fill the gaps in each other. Pieces to a puzzle, and all that.

Several minutes pass before Elain speaks again. “Thank you for that.”

“Of course,” he says without hesitation, pressing his to her hair. “You don’t have to thank me for that. I will always pull you out of the darkness.”

It is the type of thing Feyre would flush at and Nesta would scoff at, but Elain smiles happily at the words, at the love in them.

 

**25 - Shadow**

The shadows wake him, sometimes.

Cassian knows that Az can’t help it; the shadows are a part of him and he knew that when he first spoke to Azriel, when he first saw the young male dropped into a war camp, hands burned and eyes wary of all the threats around him.

But sometimes, when he’s having a good dream or is just plain tired, he will be annoyed when the shadows whispering into Azriel’s ears cause the other male to burst into action. When he jolts awake, panting, already searching for a pair of pants to tug on, pulling together whatever he has to tell Rhysand.

So while Cassian _knows_ and has known for a long time that Azriel’s shadows will wake him up more often than not, it is still irritating when it actually happens.

He squints into the milky, early morning light at Azriel, who sits on the edge of the bed lacing his boots. “Do you want me to come?”

Azriel twists, eyeing Cassian with disdain. “And ruin your beauty sleep even more?”

Cassian sniffs, pressing his face closer into the pillow. “I’m already awake.”

The guilty silence has Cassian cursing to himself. He knows better than to say something like that--Az won’t blame him, he’ll just feel terrible until Cassian has to remind him he doesn’t have to. There have been times where Az hasn’t slept for days because he was worried about waking Cass, and that...it just isn’t right.

“‘M’sorry,” Cassian murmurs, wiggling through the blankets toward Azriel. The other warrior is looking at his scarred hands, face twisted in something unreadable. Cassian’s stomach lurches at the look and he wraps his arms around Azriel the best he can with the wings in the way.

They shift and shudder at his touch, but Azriel’s shoulders don’t relax and his face doesn’t smooth out. Cassian rubs his thumb against Az’s stomach, face resting against his thigh. “Az...”

“I’m the one who should be--”

“No,” Cassian insists, cutting him off with a finger down one wing, nail dragging lightly against the membrane. “No, if anything, you should be sorry you haven’t given me a big ol’ kiss yet, you damn bastard.”

Azriel’s face shifts, mouth parting slightly at the light, careful touches to his wings. Cassian’s own lips twitch up when, inches from his face, Azriel’s cock grows hard. “Think you can spare a few minutes to say a proper good morning?”

Lips twitching up into a small smile, Azriel tugs Cassian’s head up for a kiss.

 

**26 - Goodbye**

Feyre pushes herself up, muscles and bones screaming as she moves, attempting to inhale. When she blinks, trying to pull herself together, she spots them.

Rhysand is smaller than Tamlin, she knows, but he towers over Tamlin anyway, face a mask of fury. Both covered in blood, they look like warriors, like the High Fae males Feyre grew up hearing about. The kind that stole girls, the kind that tore apart kingdoms.

How long have they been fighting? She feels groggy and exhausted, arms shaking as she watches Rhys knock Tamlin’s sword from his hands. A slice to Tamlin’s leg is hindering him more than Feyre thinks it should, and his wild eyes keep glancing back to her.

She wants to tell him to stop this. She wants to say, _if you love me,_ please stop _._ Feyre knows he will not win this fight, but she doesn’t want it to end this way, with Rhys’ sword through his chest and the Spring Court without a High Lord.

They are the only ones in the meadow, the trees surrounding her ruined and broken, the grass torn up. Feyre wonders if they will level the entire forest.

She tastes blood in the back of her throat as she shoves herself to her feet, eyes wide and breath catching as Rhys spins, slicing his sword along Tamlin’s back.

Tamlin hits the ground on his knees, and for a moment all she can hear is the blood rushing in her ears and the two males’ laboured breathing. Tamlin’s fingers dig into the dirt, his shoulders slumping, and when Feyre looks up to Rhysand, eyes wide, she expects to see his sword come swinging down.

But when their eyes meet, his face is set with determination. He says, “It is your call, Feyre.”

She blinks at him, surprised that he would give her this choice, and then curses herself for being so surprised. Rhysand has given her a choice in everything, allowed her to choose for herself, so why would this be any different?

Swallowing, she looks at Tamlin. The slumped, sad shape of his shoulders. The blood staining his dirt-streaked hands and hair.

Feyre, during the last few months in the Spring Court, often wondered this: would some part of her continue to love Tamlin if she never left Velaris? She likes to think that she would, that before Amarantha ruined them both things were good and she was happy. She tries to imagine a life with Tamlin, without a war and with an eternity to heal together, but she can’t. There are no children, there is no easy happiness like with Rhys. She is not Tamlin’s friend, but his wife.

Tamlin does not lift his face to look at her. His hair falls in limp, golden strands around his face. In the distance, there are sounds of fighting and war, but the meadow around them is quiet and serene.

Feyre looks at Tamlin, and feels sad for him. She loved him, once. Broke and killed and died for him. Maybe she doesn’t love him anymore, but she _did_ , and she allows herself to mourn the man who showed her a pond of starlight, who gave her a room and tools and inspiration to paint.

Tamlin had done so much for her, loved her. He had gone about it the wrong way and hurt both of them, but Feyre could not forget the gentleness in his gaze as she lie in the long grasses of his court, listening to a willow tree sing.

He has hurt her, has hurt her sisters and Rhysand and her friends. She used to think that she was the one who broke beyond repair Under the Mountain, but now she thinks perhaps she was wrong.

“I loved you,” Feyre tells him as she comes closer. Rhysand stiffens at her proximity to him, but Feyre is confident she can handle herself if he lunges or tries something equally stupid. She comes to kneel before Tamlin, and watches the way his green eyes flicker up.

There is no hope in them, only resignation. Only the knowledge that this is an ending, that she will not be coming back. She will save him one more time, but he must let her go.

_Be glad of your human heart, Feyre,_ Rhysand had once said to her. And it was her human heart that fell in love with this man. It was her human heart that broke to save him.

“I’m sorry it ended this way,” Feyre whispers. “But you have to let me go.”

Tamlin looks at her like he isn’t sure he knows her, and Feyre supposes he must not. She isn’t the girl she was when he took her from her home. She isn’t the girl she was when she walked down an aisle toward him.

He blinks, a tear slipping down his cheek, and he says, “Go.”

Feyre barely has a chance to stand before Rhysand is there, arm around her as he winnows them away, toward the battle and their friends.

Through the bond, Rhysand’s apprehension and worry are palpable, wondering if Tamlin will follow them, if they will live to regret this decision.

Feyre touches his face, briefly, before they appear at the edge of the field where their friends and armies are fighting. She saw Tamlin’s face as they left, saw the regret and sadness etched into his features. He looked old and tired, and she knows without a doubt that he will not follow them or hurt them any more.

Rhysand nods at her touch, twisting his face to kiss her wrist, and then they are off, into the fray once more.

 

**27 - Hide**

The first time-- _her_ first time--Elain can’t help but cover her face in embarrassment. A small noise escapes from her, making her face even hotter.

The room is blessedly cool against her heated skin, and when she peeks through her eyes at Lucien, who has the side of his face pressed between her breasts, she is glad he isn’t looking at her. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, not wanting her voice to be too loud. The memory of the sound she made when his mouth touched her breast was horrifying enough.

Lucien presses a soft kiss to the side of her breast, and then twists to look up at her. “Don’t apologize, Elain, it’s fine.”

She covers her face again at the look in his eye, the flush along the tops of his cheekbones. Lucien’s hand wraps around her wrist, not pulling it, but firm enough that she peeks out again.

“I wish you wouldn’t hide your face,” Lucien murmurs, shifting so he is lying beside her comfortably, gazing down at her with such...such love in his eyes that she feels sick with it. She wants him so terribly, has wanted it since she first gave him that food earlier in the evening that she thinks she might burst from it. But the noises, the reactions from her body are all so new and terrifying. One touch of his finger sends a shiver down her spine. One kiss from his mouth leaves her panting and damp between her legs.

Her mother always said it was her duty to service her husband in bed. That she was a wife first, and wives give their husbands children. When Elain tells him that, her voice shy and uncertain, Lucien’s hand tightens more on her wrist, and his face changes.

“I want _you_ to feel good, Elain. I don’t really care how I feel, and honestly, I can’t imagine feeling any better than I do right now. You’re so beautiful and the noises you make...” he bites his lip, then leans forward to bite hers. It is gentle, like he always is with her, and Elain takes a chance to reach up and thread her fingers through his hair, pushing forward to kiss him.

After several long, wonderful moments, Lucien pulls back far enough that he can rest his forehead against hers. “I love you, Elain. And I want to make you feel good.” His mismatched eyes blink at her, and Elain feels stripped bare beneath the gaze. She doesn’t, however, feel very shy. Just beautiful. “Will you stop hiding?”

“I’ll try,” she promises, pecking him quickly. She doesn’t meet his gaze as she asks, tentatively, “Do you think you could try that thing with--with your tongue, again?”

Her face heats at Lucien’s low chuckle, and she nearly bursts into flames when he slides lower, lower, lower...

 

**28 - Fortune**

“I’m quite rich,” Rhysand slurs, the most ridiculous Feyre has ever heard. “I will buy you an island to live on. Just for the two of you.”

Mor raises an eyebrow, sipping from her own glass and far too drunk to really be bargaining right now. Feyre watches in fascination as Azriel, whose head rests on Mor’s shoulder, says, “I like that very much.”

It comes out more garbled, but Feyre can translate just fine.

Already shaking her head, Mor says, “You can’t get rid of me that--” she burps, loudly, unabashedly, “easily, you prick. I want a nice little house by the sea, not an island.”

“And a pony?” Rhysand is skeptical, lifting his glass toward her. “Islands are very nice, you should love my offer.”

“You just want me out of the townhouse.”

“Not true,” Rhysand argues, then reconsiders. “Maybe true. You always eat the blueberries. They’re my favorite.”

Feyre smiles at the petulant tone and settles deeper onto the couch. The cushions seem to swallow her and Rhysand is warm and happy beside her. She isn’t sure how long they have been at it--she had gotten home only an hour ago from dinner with Nesta and Elain and had found the three of them drunk and talking about Mor and Azriel’s upcoming wedding.

It’s nice to be able to joke and have fun together without threats hanging over them, following every step they take.

So Feyre sits back and allows Rhysand to drunkenly shower his cousin and brother with gifts that they will without a doubt loathe in the morning.

 

**29 - Safe**

“Tomorrow we might die.”

The words are like ash on his tongue, but Cassian has long since stopped giving a shit. Everything tastes like ash now, without his wings. Tomorrow might very well be his last day because without his wings...

Cassian knows he is a good warrior, a strong fighter, but he has only had a few months to retrain his body without his wings. And he isn’t entirely sure he will be good enough to hold off an army.

“That’s morbid,” Mor mutters, knees pulled to her chest. She and Az sit on the spare bed, the latter looking at his hands folded between his legs. Mor’s hair is pulled back in several braids, but most of it is left loose and flowing down her back. Cassian can’t help but memorize the colour of it, the way it changes and shifts as she breathes.

Against the wall, Amren sighs loudly through her nose. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

Mor, looking slightly uncomfortable, nods reluctantly. “It is. Doesn’t mean Cas needs to talk about it.”

“It isn’t all he means to say,” Azriel finally speaks, meeting his brother’s eyes. The pit in Cassian’s stomach sinks away as he realizes that his own thoughts and intentions are mirrored in Az’s eyes. This would be something he misses, the way they can read each other so effortlessly.

His three friends look at him, and Cassian says, “Tomorrow, we might die. But we will do so protecting the High Lord and Lady of the Night Court.”

There is silence, and then Amren says, “No _shit,_ Cassian.”

It is meant to lighten the mood, but Amren’s words only stand to solidify their plan. Rhysand and Feyre won’t die tomorrow, if they can help it. Considering who and what they are, Cassian doesn’t think it will be a problem. But he doesn’t want to see any of his friends die, and he knows that if there is a choice in death, if there is any way to make it so, he will pray to the Mother to keep them safe tomorrow. Take him, instead.

Mor begins to speak softly, recalling a time in the last war about Azriel, and Cassian thinks, _I love each of you._ He won’t say it, because that is not who he is and he doesn’t feel like cursing himself, but he knows as each of them meet his eyes that they know anyway. And they love him, too.

Tomorrow, they might die. But at least they won’t do it in vain.

 

**30 - Ghost**

There are some things you can never escape from.

Rhys knew this when he came to collect Tamlin, after his time was up, after Amarantha had won. He had strolled into that estate, allowing Amarantha’s cronies to deal with the lesser Fae who put up a fight and made his way toward Tamlin. The other male waited patiently in his room, everything about him screaming defeat except for this: the wings that framed him from behind, strung up and horrible. They hung above his bed like some sort of twisted trophy, and his sister’s wings seemed to ask, _remember me?_

_Yes,_ Rhysand had wanted to say, fall to his knees and weep. But instead he smirked and looked at Tamlin and dragged him to Under the Mountain.

He tries to let Feyre in on these things; he can see into her nightmares often enough, the bond thin as a window when they hit, but it is so hard to speak about the atrocities he suffered under Amarantha and that cursed mountain. His nightmares don’t just make him scream, they make him _bleed_ his essence like blood and the magic that erupts from him is suffocating, horrible.

So he is surprised when he wakes one night after a horrible nightmare of Amarantha riding him, nails dragging down his chest and leaving bloody welts, and Feyre is there.

His body feels so heavy but he keeps it held above hers with some effort, his hand touching her neck in a way he never meant to and--

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, violet eyes searching hers, scared he has done something unforgivable, scared he has hurt her. He moves off of her, sitting with his knees close to his chest, breathes coming painfully through too-tight lungs.

Feyre does not hesitate before leaning over, grabbing his hand and holding it tightly in her own. She doesn’t touch him any more than that, and Rhysand is grateful for that. The scent of her fills his nose when he inhales heavily, and he begins to relax bit by bit. Finally, he allows Feyre to pull him back against her, lying down his his head on her chest.

“Don’t ever apologize for that,” Feyre tells him softly, her fingers soothing as she runs them through his hair. He feels foolish for being so comforted by the touch, but he can’t help himself. “I know better than you think about ghosts, Rhys.”

He knows she does. Rhysand doesn’t know nearly as much as he would like about the few months after Under the Mountain, but he knows that they were horribly difficult for her. He wonders, almost asks, if she sometimes sees Amarantha in crowds. If she sees the Attor in shadows. Rhysand doesn’t know if he wants to know the answer, so he keeps his mouth shut.

“Thank you, then,” he says instead, pressing a soft kiss to the side of her breast. Her heart picks up speed at the words and the gesture, and her own mouth is soft where it presses against his forehead.

 

**31 - Book**

When all's said and done and the Cauldron is nothing more than ash on the wind, Amren holds the Book of Breathings in her hands and thinks, _I can go home._

She can see the moment the others realize (but not Rhysand, who has known all along that Amren would do this, who looks at her with a measured gaze and does not move an inch). How Morrigan grows still, her wide smile faltering. How Azriel’s hand tightens around the hilt of his sword, and how Cassian’s magic seems to grow around him, not taking shape but just...moving, anxiously.

How Feyre, with eyes that seem too old for twenty-one years, gives Amren the softest, kindest smile.

Amren thinks of the word home and is startled to note that what comes to mind is not darkness and the howls of her own kind, but a small studio apartment in a city of light and dreams. She does not think of the ones she left behind, but thinks of those who she will be leaving behind now.

She had been so angry, once, when she was shoved in this body and left to rot. Angry and vengeful and she thinks now that it would be so easy to tear from this fragile body and ruin this world, find the ones who trapped her and make them suffer. But this might be easier: staying, and watching Rhysand and Feyre heal each other. Staying to see her friends finally live and be happy in a world that poses no immediate threats.

Stay, and learn the way Nesta Archeron moves. Stay, and see how that fire burns and burns endlessly in that female’s body.

The Book whispers, _home, home, home, home,_ to her. And Amren nods to herself before she destroys the book.

She is home, and she does not think that the world she came from would know what to do with a beast like her now.

 

**32 - Eye**

Nesta cackles helplessly, bent in half at the waist. In front of her, Cassian is spitting and snarling, holding a hand over his red, watering eye.

“I can’t fucking believe you just poked me in the eye,” he snarls, pulling his hand away so he can blink the eye a few times. Little tears drip down his face and Nesta’s own follow down her face as she continues to laugh. It is the most she has laughed in years, and she remembers now why she doesn’t. Other than the fact that Elain is painfully _un_ funny, Nesta’s stomach begins to cramp as she keeps laughing.

It had been an accident, in all honesty. He had snuck up behind her, and by the time Nesta had realized someone was behind her, her was close enough that her finger jab to the throat hit his eye instead.

Cassian is still growling obscenities under his breath about her, but Nesta can’t focus on it as her laughter finally subsided. She wipes at her own wet eyes and lets out one last breathy laugh before focusing on Cassian again.

“We need to work on your aim,” he mutters, his eye finally looking a little better.

Nesta arches an eyebrow. “Oh, do we? I’m pretty sure my aim is excellent, thank you.”

Though he would deny it, the face Cassian makes is absolutely a pout. Nesta almost bursts into laughter again.

This time, when he looks at her and the soft smile on her lips, he doesn’t look angry or annoyed. Rather, the look on his face is one she hasn’t seen often. Part of her is saying _smirk, play it off,_ but...but she chooses to ignore it and keeps the smile on her face, enjoys the way his face softens in turn.

“Nesta?” He asks, voice quiet. She is grateful, then, that the others are not around. She doesn’t know what she would do if Feyre saw her in this sort of situation.

“What is it?” She asks, voice equally soft and quiet. Her heart beats so quickly that she is sure he can hear it, but she can hear his own heartbeat thumping rapidly beneath his ribs.

Cassian moves tentatively. The way his body seems to fit around hers, moving so that he is in her space, has Nesta exhaling a slow breath. There is no fear, here. No young man to hurt her, no war to stop them from doing this. She is _so_ glad nobody is around.

Stopping inches from her lips, the whiskers of his facial hair picking at her skin--and gods won’t that be just _delightful?--_ Cassian asks, “May I kiss you?”

The snort she gives is more for show, but the way she leans forward and presses her mouth to his says exactly what she feels: _yes, thank you for asking, thank you for being kind._

He does not push; his hands are hot and heavy where they rest on her hips, and his mouth moves with slow ease against her own. This is nice, Nesta knows, but she wants _more._ She wants this kiss to be them, not what Cassian thinks she needs.

So when he pulls back after a few seconds, Nesta chases his lips and captures the fatter bottom one between her teeth, tugging.

The growl that he lets out is more groan than anything, and Nesta plans to draw that noise from him a thousand more times before the day is over.

 

**33 - Never**

“Never?”

Elain flushes a deep scarlet and turns away from the piercing gazes of her sisters. Nesta, who already knew but probably still suspected, deep down, laughs.

“It isn’t funny!” Elain argues, busying herself with the teapot, reaching over to refill Feyre’s cup for the third time. Her sister looks vaguely nauseous at having to drink another cup, but Elain doesn’t care. She’s so nervous for tomorrow that she might very well burst into flames or tears or both. Each of her sisters know that, too, so she has no idea why they’re being so...so _stupid._

Nesta is still chuckling when she says, “Of course it isn’t. You’re about to marry an Illyrian soldier with a huge _cock_ and you’ve never even seen one. That’s not funny, it’s hilarious.”

Part of Elain likes that Nesta feels safe and happy enough that she doesn’t have to protect Elain from anything anymore, but another part mourns the Nesta who never made fun of her. “How do you know he--how big it is?” Elain stutters, looking at her tea.

Nesta raises an eyebrow, sipping daintily at her tea. Somehow, immortality has made Nesta more beautiful, her features sharper. Feyre snorts beside Nesta and says, “She’s seeing Cassian, who probably knows the exact width and length of Azriel’s cock. Cassian is odd.”

_Apparently._ Elain sighs, shoulders slumping. “Well what if it won’t...go in? Or what if I don’t do anything right?”

Here, Nesta glares. “If Azriel has a problem with it--”

“He won’t,” Feyre cuts in, glowering at Nesta. “And Elain? Don’t worry, alright? Azriel is one of the kindest people I’ve ever known--”

“You don’t _know_ that many people,” Nesta cuts in.

“--and if there is anything you’re unsure of Azriel will listen.”

Elain is still not entirely sure, but she does know that she isn’t worried about Azriel. She knows his kindness and the gentleness that lies beneath the warrior’s strength. Maybe she should just focus on that, she thinks as she sips her tea and Nesta and Feyre begin to argue.

 

**34 - Sing**

Feyre doesn’t mean to sneak up on them, but she heard the murmur of a voice and panicked.

Rhysand must know she is there, standing in the doorway, but he doesn’t stop his soft singing and Feyre is grateful for it. She didn’t know that he had such a nice voice and the sight of him rocking their daughter back and forth in his arms, his voice a soft lullaby...it’s enough to bring tears to Feyre’s eyes.

They daughter is sound asleep, arms loose around Rhysand’s shoulder and legs limp around his waist. She is far too old to be rocked to sleep, probably, but Rhysand seems to have no qualms about it. In fact, given the warm happiness emanating from his every goddamn pore, he seems to love it.

Which is just _perfect._ Feyre had to deal with the little hellion all day at the Palace of Wind, had no shortage of seven heart attacks when she would jump from small cliffs, only to snap her wings out at the last second and soar into the wind. Even Cassian’s heart had jumped when Luna did it the third time, her loud cheer echoing around them.

Naturally, Rhys gets to take care of her when she’s calm and asleep, her mouth open and drool pooling on Rhysand’s nice blue shirt. She would almost be annoyed at the whole situation if it weren’t for the way Luna had sleepily held Feyre’s hand on the walk back to the townhouse earlier, and the way she leaned into her mother’s warmth.

So Feyre stands there, listening to her mate sing to their daughter, and is so, so glad that this is her life.

 

**35 - Sudden**

Feyre was used to summers in the human realm, with how hot and sweltering they could become. Living in that small cottage with her family--with Nesta who complained loudly and Elain who complained quietly--had made them even more unbearable.

Despite the sea air, Velaris was much the same. Their town house was surrounded by other houses, and the only room with a decent breeze was the spare one, much to her eternal annoyance. Walks did not help and flying with Rhys only made her irritable when the sun burnt her cheeks.

Essentially, she was not the most enjoyable company as of late. Nesta took every opportunity to remind her of this as she and Amren paraded around the city, and Elain had written her that she was sorry the weather was so dreadful, but she and Lucien were having a wonderful time wherever they were.

Feyre is miserable and hot and has taken her second bath of the day when Rhysand strolls into the townhouse, whistling and far too cheerful to tolerate. She almost snaps at him to leave her alone when he appears on the balcony, where Feyre is hiding in a small bit of shade, shirt rolled up to just below her breasts.

She glares at his sunny expression, hoping it conveys how utterly annoying she finds him. Considering his grin doesn’t falter, she assumes it doesn’t. “What?” She asks in lieu of hello.

“How are you, this fine afternoon?”

“Sweltering. What do you want?”

He props his feet up on the small table she is using to prop her _own_ feet up, and they dwarf hers in comparison. The black soles of his shoes look almost worn thin. “Aren’t you in a delightful mood. I had a surprise for you, but if you’re going to be _mean_...”

She doesn’t understand how he can wear so much black in this weather. It’s disgusting. “Sorry,” she says sweetly, grinning in a way she _knows_ isn’t friendly. It makes his own grin grow wider. “What is it, love?”

The petname feels so stupid coming from her that she immediately feels even more annoyed. Cauldron boil her, when would this heatwave _end?_

Rhysand sighs, stretching his arms up toward the skies. Feyre watches mutely as the muscles in his arms flex and shift. Such a tease, her mate.

When he settles back down, Rhysand’s smile is softer. “What would you say about going to the cottage?”

Feyre’s heart jumps at the memory of the cottage, of what they said and did to each other, of her paintings and those nights spent together. She hadn’t expected this; she knew he was busy dealing with stray Illyrian soldiers who sided with Hybern while she was dealing with Velaris and rebuilding. Feyre barely saw him as of late, but if he was asking her to go away, did he mean to come too? It’s so unexpected, so sudden, but...well Feyre wouldn’t be opposed to it at all.

“Cassian is dealing with the rebels,” Rhysand shrugs, picking idly at a stray thread on his shirt. “And Mor can deal with things here. We haven’t had time with just _us_ in so long, and I thought it would be nice--”

“Will it be cooler?” Feyre asks, cutting him off before he can get too sappy. She doesn’t think she has the strength or mental ability to cry at whatever heartfelt thing he meant to say. She needed cool air and maybe a pool to swim in. She would also like to have sex without sticking to each other in grossly humid ways.

“Naturally,” Rhys nods, as if she is being ridiculous for asking. “What am I, some sort of monster?”

Feyre groans with relief, peeling herself off the chair she was lounging in. “Perfect! I’ll go pack my things.”

“Already done,” Rhysand tells her, standing and offering his hand. She grips it tightly in her own slightly sweaty one.

“Aren't you confident,” she snaps, “I’m sure all you packed were frilly, lacey things, you pig--”

Her words are swallowed up by wind and sound as he winnows them away, but she can feel his chest moving with laughter and allows herself to smile at that.

 

**36 - Stop**

“Please,” Mor begs, voice high and almost sobbing. “Please don’t stop.”

Cassian bites her thigh, pulling the pale skin between his teeth to leave a mark. She arches--or rather, attempts to arch--off the bed, but his arm is a brace against her hips, pushing her back down. She does sob then, fingers pulling his hair painfully as she tries to push his face back toward her clit. “Cassian _please.”_

“I thought I was a bastard?” He asks casually, nosing along her groin, letting his breath hit the swollen bundle of nerves only inches from his mouth. “A ‘no good Illyrian bastard who only thinks with his cock’, actually.”

Mor lets out a noise that is definitely not normal, and he looks up enough to see her flushed, sweaty face glaring at him.

He raises an eyebrow. “I think I’m doing pretty well right now. My cock isn’t doing _any_ of the thinking.”

“Cassian...” Mor whines, and he chuckles. “I’m sorry for saying those things,” she tells him without an ounce of sincerity.

Usually, Cassian would let this drag out for several more minutes, but both of their arousals are making him impatient. With a loud sigh, he lets her know that she is forgiven by pressing his mouth to her clit and sucking, hard.

 

**37 - Time**

The night air is cool on her sweat-slick skin, and for the first time in months, Feyre feels as though she can breathe again.

She can remember a time when the thought of the Night Court scared her. How she had worried about being in eternal darkness, in witnessing horrors worse than Under the Mountain. She had been so afraid to even think about it, and now she is so glad to be here it makes her chest ache.

The sky is brilliant--dark, deepest purple and blue, with stars just beginning to come to life millions of miles away. She feels safe in there, despite it’s open concept and the terrifying fall if she were to misstep.

Blood is still cooling on the battlefield, and yet here she is. Home.

_Finally,_ something says inside her, a mixture of herself and Rhys.

She pushes against the bond, wondering, and scans the mountain peaks around her, hoping to spot a dark shape rushing toward her. But she knows he will not be here tonight, still too busy with his troops, with the other High Lords and now, High Ladies.

Feyre had wanted to stay, to help, but she and Mor had been exhausted and hadn’t taken much convincing to go home.

_Home._ Cauldron, it feels like forever since she has been here, since she has been able to think the word without worrying about being caught or found out in the Spring Court.

The soft breeze ruffles her filthy hair, and Feyre finally steps away from the edge. She makes her way down the winding staircase and toward her room. How long had it been since she had slept here? Months, maybe almost a year.

Feyre smiles at the familiar door, and can’t help but think about the wonderful bathing pool beyond it. She just wants to soak in it for a thousand years, maybe scrub away the grime and blood coating her skin...

Opening the door, Feyre quickly enters and shuts the door behind her, already working at the leathers strapped to her body, tugging them loose so she can slip out of them. Her tunic is a bit harder to take off; the blood and grime have dried and the shirt sheds flecks of it onto the soft carpet. She turns toward the bathing room, only to pause when she spots Rhysand.

He is lying across her bed, still in his flying leathers. His wings are spread exhaustedly across the blankets and pillows, legs hanging off the bed, and he is absolutely _filthy._

“You had better not be getting my blankets dirty,” Feyre snarls, but there is no heat behind it. Ignoring the fact that her chest is bare and her pants are undone, Feyre darts across the room and slides easily onto the bed, grinning from ear to ear. “I thought you weren’t going to make it back here tonight?”

Rhysand tilts his head at her, face soft as he appraises her body. Bruises colour her torso and blood stains her pale skin where she healed from small wounds earlier. His hand comes up to rest on her hip. “I flew home as soon as negotiations were finished.”

“Why?” Feyre asks, tracing her finger down Rhys’ jaw. Her finger comes back dirty and she grimaces.

He sighs, head flopping back, eyes shutting. “I wanted to relax with you for one night. It’s...it’s been too long. I’ve missed you.”

“Oh,” Feyre breathes, breath catching. She immediately feels stupid for the tears that well up in her eyes, and for the emotion clogging her throat, and she is glad that his eyes are shut. Taking a moment to compose herself, Feyre begins to move away, tugging him up as she goes. “Well, if you _really_ want to relax,” she says, clearing her throat a little. “We could go and take a nice bath...”

Rhysand’s eyes are warm as they meet hers, and she is struck suddenly by the fact that they will have this for the rest of their lives. Hybern is defeated, and if the negotiations continue to go well, then things in Prythian will be alright.

He moves of his own volition, pushing himself to stand. Feyre follows, about to move toward the bathing room when he tugs her to him.

Feyre hugs him back tightly, pressing her face to his neck. They’ve barely had any alone time in weeks, and all she wants to do right now is smell him. Smell him and touch him and just _be_ with him. “I’m glad you came home,” she tells him, pulling back far enough to reach up and press her lips, softly, to his. “I didn’t really want to sleep alone.”

“You could have crawled in with Mor,” he tells her, stealing another kiss. There is so much love in his eyes right then that Feyre feels she might drown in it. “Although I think Azriel and Cassian had the same idea as me, so it _may_ have been awkward.”

“And Amren?” Feyre asks with a laugh, tugging him by his belt toward the bathing room. “Should I expect her tonight?”

“No,” Rhysand shakes his head, grinning at her as she fusses with his armour. “She stayed behind.”

Feyre grins triumphantly as she removes the heavy armour strapped to his chest, watching it fall to the ground with a thud. “Ah, so she is the only smart one.”

Rhysand mock-frowns at her, eyebrows pulling together. “And here I thought you would appreciate the company tonight...”

She raises an eyebrow. “Oh, I do. But I’m not certain you’ll be up for any...catching up, after this bath.”

Feyre laughs at his scoff. “As if I would be done after a measly bath. You’ve been gone too long, Feyre darling. I’ll have to remind you how much stamina I really have.”

Her fingers trace his chest, scarred and golden brown in the low light of the bathing room. His own hands come up to rest on her hips, tender and warm. “I look forward to it,” she tells him, and she swears that his answering smile lights up the entire room.

“Good,” he says, leaning forward to nip at her jaw. “I have all the time in the world.”

 

**38 - Wash**

The water is almost scalding, but Nesta sinks into it anyway, pulling her knees to her chest and resting her forehead against them. Flashes of the fight today--Cassian against that Hybern soldier, her sharp, serrated teeth and how they tore into his skin--and the heat from the water making her nauseous. They had barely been able to escape, and it was only by luck that she had been able to winnow them far enough away that Cassian could navigate to a small inn.

Nesta has only winnowed four times since her Making, and each time leaves her feeling weak and shaky. She pushes her hands through her hair now, gripping the strands. Gods, she couldn’t even speak to Cassian as he let them into the room he purchased. Hadn’t been able to look at him or listen to him as she made her way toward the small bathing room, shutting the door behind her.

What if she hadn’t been able to use her abilities? Cassian was still learning how to move and fight without his wings, and the soldier had snuck up on them. Her own ribs are bruised from being thrown against a tree, but she knows that in the other room Cassian is healing, wounded. Alone.

They have been alone for days, almost a week. It is the longest she has gone without Elain, the longest she has been with another person. Nesta finds, almost shocked, that she does not like to be alone.

“Cassian?” She whispers, half-hoping he won’t hear her. The only thing she can hear is the _drip, drip, drip_ from the tap.

And then, “Can I come in?”

Nesta chokes out something that sounds like _yes,_ and the door opens behind her. Guessing by his uncomfortable huff, the heat of the room is stifling. She twists to look over her shoulder at him.

Cassian meets her gaze baldly, the exhaustion in his face not covered by that smirk. Nesta’s own face must be a mirror of his, because he makes his way toward her, not looking once at the body not hidden beneath the water. He drops down to sit beside the tub, leaning against it heavily with a sigh.

She looks at his hair, greasy and dark, and leans her head against the tub’s rim, close to his. They breathe in unison for a long time before Cassian speaks.

“I didn’t want to be alone,” he says, voicing her thoughts. The water is becoming murky with dirt, the result of not having access to a bath in nearly a week. She wants nothing more than to wash herself and crawl into the small but comfortable-looking bed they purchased, but she does not think she can move.

She lifts her head at the same moment he turns, his chapped lips pressing right above her eyebrow. If it were any other time, Nesta might have poked his eyes out for it. But it has been a long time since she has had someone to comfort her, to treat her gently, and she melts into the touch despite herself.

Nesta can’t bring herself to speak, but she grabs the wash cloth and bar of soap, passing it to Cassian. “Let’s wash quickly,” she tells him, moving over in the tub to make room for him. Cassian’s gaze is heavy on her, and she matches it. “I want to sleep sometime tonight.”

He strips quickly, his wounds already mostly healed. The skin is pink and shiny where it is still healing, and Nesta focuses on that as Cassian eases himself into the tub. Instead of soaping the cloth up, he reaches for her.

Heart pounding, Nesta allows him to pull her closer, settling against him in the warm water. Washing can come later, she decides, as his hand traces up her side, soothing and safe.

 

**39 - Torn**

“That was expensive,” Mor whines as Azriel pulls the ripped lace from her legs, tossing them over his shoulder. His hair stands on end and his face is more relaxed than Mor has seen it in ages, but still. Those were nice panties, and he could have very easily removed them some other way.

“I’ll buy you new ones,” he promises, leaning down to suck a bruise on her hip. His mouth is gentle--everything about Azriel is gentle, Mor is finding. Before, she had thought of Azriel as stone; unyielding and unbreaking and constant, always constant. But she has learned so much lately about her old friend. Mor knows that he loves his back rubbed and his scarred hands are always gentle as they touch her. Soft, comforting touches that leave Mor wanting _more_.

His kindness is what she loves most, really. And she loves learning more about him as their new relationship develops. Little things she hadn’t noticed before, little things that make up this newer, happier Azriel.

“I want ones in every colour,” Mor says, arching her hips as his mouth moves lower, sucking and kissing and licking until she’s panting. “And matching stockings, too.”

“Naturally,” Azriel deadpans from between her legs, and Mor laughs.

 

**40 - History**

Here is what they will remember:

You were a naive young girl who knew nothing; how to love or fight or survive, and yet you did all three as best as you could. You killed and broke yourself in order to make others happy, and forgot about your own happiness along the way. You were Made and stolen, and you rose above the hurt and sadness that nearly drowned you. You went into the dark and came out _different,_ your skin thicker and teeth sharpened. The kindness and humanity you once possessed were lost in that dark.

They will not remember that you picked the darkness. They will not know that the darkness welcomed you with strong, open arms. The darkness showed you that it could be as kind as the light, given the chance.

Stories will be told and songs will be sung about the missing bride of Spring, but legends will begin about the Queen of Night, and that, in your opinion, matters more.

 

**41 - Flower**

Much to Elain’s utter despair and shock, the garden at Feyre’s townhouse is filled with weeds. Not completely, of course, but it is overgrown and ugly in a way that makes Elain’s eyebrows furrow in consternation every time Feyre wants to eat lunch outside. How in the world could a High Lord of Prythian have such a horrible, ugly garden?

“He has other things to worry about?” Feyre shrugs off the question, stuffing another lemon cake into her mouth. Her cheeks bunch like a chipmunks. “You can go wild, if you’d like. I’m not going to touch it.”

So Elain does. She asks Mor to accompany her to the Palaces, picking out different seeds and potted plants, mind already drifting to how beautiful the garden will be once she’s done. The front yard is a little drab, too, so maybe she’ll work on that next.

Days drift into each other as Elain works. Her hands are constantly dirt-caked, her hair always tossed haphazardly out of her face. Sometimes, Azriel will help her, pulling weeds beside her like he has nothing better to do, making quiet conversation with Elain.

Mor likes to help too, and Elain enjoys the other female’s chatter and sunny disposition. It is so different from Azriel’s quiet warmth, and Nesta and Feyre’s angry bickering.

(They had helped once for a few hours, but after one half of the yard was nearly ruined by a fight, Elain had banished them from the gardens until they could behave properly.)

But it is Rhysand who surprises her most.

Elain is not the smartest person in the world, but she does know people. And she knows that Rhysand does not--or did not, at least--like her or Nesta very much. Elain understands why, of course. They were terrible to Feyre and useless besides, so she knows that whatever ill feelings the High Lord of the Night Court held for the two of them, they were deserved. He was never outwardly rude to them, and gave them so much as well, but Elain still did not think he liked her.

Until one day, Rhysand kneels beside her in the dirt, dressed in plain clothes, and asks, “May I help you?”

The smile she gives him is tentative, but she passes him a bag of seeds and instructs him where to lay them.

By the time her garden is finished, growing and beautiful, it is almost the end of spring. Her back has a soreness to it and her hands are calloused, but she smiles happily at her handiwork, proud that she can still make things grow. Her life may have been turned upside down, but the things she loves still make her happy, and she doesn’t think being Made could ever change that.

 

**42 - Bother**

Rhysand is something to behold, standing at Amren’s door with his shoulders hunched, a devastated look on his face. For a heartbeat, Amren assumes the worst and the words are almost out of her mouth ( _where is she?)_ when Rhysand says, “Feyre’s pregnant.”

Amren stares at him, ignoring the pang of something disgusting and cheery in her chest, before she says, “So?”

“So she’s pregnant,” Rhysand snaps, making his way into the apartment. His hair is disheveled in a horribly ugly way--hair sticking up at every end, making him look mad--and his hands keep twisting together, like they are a puzzle he is trying to figure out. Wide, violet eyes meet hers and Amren scoffs.

“I hope you didn’t act this way when she told you.”

“Of course not.” He is distracted, running his hands over her countertop, her belongings. He looks so frantic that it makes Amren uneasy, makes her glad that Nesta chose today to spend time with Elain down by the water. “I just--I’m not sure what to do.”

Amren rolls her eyes and moves to snatch away a shirt that Rhysand has pulled from her drawer. “Go bother Morrigan with this shit. I’m too old for it.”

“Mor will tell me to be happy about it,” Rhysand says, finally walking to sink down onto Amren’s unmade bed. She scowls ferociously at that, but leans against the wall opposite.

“Shouldn’t you be?”

He runs a shaking hand through his hair, and Amren allows herself to picture what Rhys surely is: a child, hunted for the rest of their life, with power too great to truly control. A woman, bleeding out on a bed while a baby shrieks in the distance. A man, alone without a mate or a child, broken by it.

Amren sighs heavily, sliding down the wall to sit, allowing her legs to stretch out in front of her. “It will be difficult,” she tells him, because he came here for truth. And for all that Mor is Truth itself, she would not want to be the one to break her cousin’s heart. Amren herself does not want to do it, but he expects it from her, wants her to be honest in a way that only she can. So she is. “But that child will have several powerful people looking out for it. I think,” Amren adds once Rhysand’s shoulder’s dip, “that right now you should be happy. Leave the worrying to us.”

“I am happy,” Rhysand says immediately, lifting his face. His violet eyes are steady on her, even though anxiety still dances in them.

“Then you’re doing just fine,” Amren waves a hand at him, a small smile gracing her lips. “Now get out.”

When they both stand, Rhysand pulls her into a hug quicker than she can think. It is only because she is shocked that she doesn’t immediately knock him on his ass. “Thank you, old friend.”

Amren groans at the vice-like arms around her, keeping her arms pinned to her sides as much as hugging her, really. “Yes, yes. I’m the best, I deserve something nice and shiny. Goodbye, High Lord. Go kiss your wife in congratulations.”

Rhysand winnows to the door before Amren can swing, and the smile on his lips is positively devious. “I plan to do much more than kissing.”

Amren sneers, but he is gone before she can reply.

 

**43 - God**

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Mor’s father tells her solemnly, before he makes the first cut.

Later, she never really finds out how long they hurt her for. Mor doesn’t really know anything but the sharp edge of her father’s serrated knife and the cruel hands of her mother, brothers, and father. They are ruthless with their hurts, and although the wounds they inflict on her are terrible, their words are worse.

Mor screams, begs, pleads for them to stop, to forgive her at various parts in the beginning. Her mother just laughed, a loud cackle that rattled Mor’s bones.

She thinks, during this time, about Cassian and how kind and gentle he had been with her, even though she saw how mad she drove him, how desperate he was to go hard and fast. She thinks of Rhysand and his violet eyes, telling her that he will do anything and everything in his power to keep her from the marriage with Eris. And Azriel. Az, with his scarred hands and hurt eyes as he realized what she did.

Something sharp and horribly, horribly painful is slowly punched into her abdomen, and Mor begins to pray to the Mother, the Cauldron, to any gods that are out there and listening. _Please let me live,_ she begs desperately, as a numb sort of feeling overcomes the pain. _Please don’t let me die here. I’m more than this,_ she shouts at whoever will hear. _I am Morrigan of the Court of Nightmares, and this is not how I will die._

But the world fades to black anyway.

And when her eyes open again, searching the darkness around her, body one massive _hurt,_ her world narrows to this: a soft cloak draped over her mangled body, strong arms lifting her, cradling her, and a voice in her head that is both hers and not.

_You are the Morrigan,_ it says, _and you will live._

 

**44 - Wall**

When it falls, there is no big explosion. Just a wave of magic that is both soft and not, pushing through the land both north and south, and then there is nothing.

The trees on the side of the human realm look the same as those bordering the Spring Court. The birds that erupt from the trees do not hit a massive invisible wall, they simply fly north.

They are bloodied and victorious, and as the soldiers--both human and faerie alike--begin to cheer, Feyre allows herself a grim smile. How long ago had it been that she passed through that Wall, on her way to save the male she loved? It seems impossible that it is no longer there, and yet here they are, and there are people walking across the border.

“It’s incredible,” Feyre breathes, hand clenched tightly around Rhysand’s. His own amazement is echoed on his face, and the Book of Breathings in her hand, the one that brought the wall down peacefully, carefully, whispers _incredible what you can do, Queen of Carnage._ Because it was her words that spoke the spell to break the wall.

For once, the Book’s whispering does not bother her. Instead, Feyre moves toward where the Wall once was, and passes through nothing.

 

**45 - Naked**

Feyre is trying to decide how to properly mix the colours to paint Rhysand’s eyes when he whines from by the window, “I'm _cold.”_

“Warm yourself up,” Feyre says distractedly, eyeing the colour with some distaste. Not the right shade of violet, dammit. “You’re a High Lord, aren’t you? And you were the one who volunteered to do this naked.”

Rhysand sighs noisily, but Feyre ignores him when she blends the right colours, moving back to her painting. It’s coming along nicely, and she’s glad they chose the window and not the bed for him to pose by. The natural light coming in is much nicer than the candle light.

“Please stop moving,” she groans when she realizes that he’s switched his legs. He gives her a look and shifts back, wincing at what surely must be horribly numb limbs.

_Remind me to pay you back in kind later,_ Rhysand says through the bond, and she can hear the smirk in his voice even though his face is casual as she paints.   _I’d like to see how long_ you _can go without moving._

She knows that ignoring him will only fuel that fire later, but Feyre has always had trouble talking while painting, and prefers to jump right into it without any distractions. She should have known that painting Rhys would prove difficult.

Still, he _is_ one of the most beautiful things she has ever painted, if not the most beautiful. His head is ducked, his leg propped up enough to cover his cock, but she manages to capture the strength in his arms and chest, and those wings...Cauldron she loves painting those wings.

The look he gives her, eyes heavy lidded and mouth curled in a suggestive smirk reminds her that her walls are down, but she sees the flush that spreads along his neck and face and decides not to snap them back up.

 

**46 - Drive**

She is so broken, so horrifically hurt that sometime Rhysand can’t breathe with the pain of it. Not his pain--not completely, anyway-- but her’s. When she wakes from nightmares and that fool beside her doesn’t so much as stir; when she doesn’t eat, or speak, or want to live.

He makes her come to the Night Court because he hopes it will help. He hopes that Mor will be able to bring something out in her, or that fighting with him will help at all. Rhysand doesn’t know what to do, what he is supposed to be, but he knows that his instincts are screaming for him to get her, take care of her, heal her.

It is incredible, how much a few months change a person. In three months, Feyre went from a woman in love, a woman so in love that she died for it, to a woman drowning on dry land, her hands covered in blood only she could see.

But no, Rhysand sees it too. His own hands are so stained that he doubts they will ever be completely clean. But he also sees this: the potential to help Feyre heal herself, to give her the chances and opportunities she needs in order to survive and want to live.

So he does. He brings her to his Court of Dreams and trusts her with his heart, with his family. He strives to keep her safe and make her strong, but she does it all herself. She is so much stronger than Rhysand thinks she knows, and he loves the part of her that weeps for the dead Fae youths she killed, loves the part of her that loves Tamlin, even now.

It is the mating bond and more that makes him love her. It is her wary, broken kindness and the way she opens up to his small, makeshift family; the way she grows and learns to love herself.

Rhysand finds during the months he spends with Feyre that his goals change and reorient themselves. Yes, he wants to create a better Prythian, yes he wants to stop a war from happening, but he also wants to be with Feyre in any way he can, in any way she will have him.

He doesn’t tell her about the mating bond because the thought of her staying with him out of some sort of...obligation, makes him sick. He wants her acceptance of the mating bond to be her choice when she is ready and not a second before it.

 

**47 - Harm**

When Elain had been engaged before, Nesta had been sickened by how sweet and cutesy everything had been. Her dress had been a horrible mess of frill and lace, beautiful in a fairy tale princess way, but too big and extravagant for real life. The vows Elain had read to her, the flowers she planned to suffocate the guests with, it was all so much. Nesta had decided when Elain argued with her husband to be about colors, that if she were ever to get married she would have a small, private wedding. She had no need or use for an elaborate, high society wedding. She just needed her sisters there.

So when Cassian asks her one day, his wings out and the sun beating down on them from above, if she would be interested in getting married soon, Nesta had agreed, with the only condition that it not be a big party.

That morning, Elain and Feyre helped her get ready, and for the first time in a very long time, there was a pleasant silence around the three of them, nothing terrible hanging over their heads or past animosities. Elain laced Nesta into the simple white gown she picked out, and Feyre placed the veil on her head. It was nice, Nesta thought, that she could be with her sisters in this way after everything they had all been through. Nicer still that they were all healed and strong enough to overcome it all.

Her hands are slightly damp now as she places them in Cassian’s, but she is relieved to find that his are too. He gives her a shaky, happy smile and Nesta looks at how handsome he is in his fine clothing, how his hair had been tied back and his facial hair trimmed. He looks so big and strong but his hands are gentle where they cradle hers and for once, Nesta doesn’t offer him that familiar smirk. The smile she gives him is fully, wholly one of joy.

The Priestess standing before them looks young, but Nesta can see the age and knowledge in her eyes as she appraises them and says, “Your vows, please.”

Cassian’s eyes have not moved from her since she walked into the House of Wind, Feyre and Elain walking behind her. Now, his voice is slightly hoarse as he says in front of all their loved ones, “I, Cassian, pledge to honor and defend you and yours above all others. To keep you safe from all harm, to be your comfort and sanctuary, to be your family, from this day until the end of our days.”

The conviction in his voice, the tenderness and love, makes Nesta’s throat close up and her eyes prickle with tears. She wants to laugh at her mother, who told her once that men didn’t like cold women, that she would have to smile more and be kinder if she ever wanted to find a husband. Instead, she lifts her chin and repeats the words back to him in a voice that wobbles only once. They do not have a link through their minds like Feyre and Rhysand, or a connection made stronger by a hundred years, or a mating bond, but Nesta figures, as the Priestess pronounces them man and wife, that none of those things matter.

Nesta had never looked for a fairytale, had never wanted one. All she wanted was someone who cared about her enough to look through her anger and fear and see _her_ beneath. See the woman who would fight tooth and nail for her sisters, who would not bow to mortal queens or immortal kings.

The kiss Cassian gives her--deep and hot and full of things Nesta had once only dreamed of--tells Nesta that he sees all of that and more.

 

**48 - Precious**

There is a long list of things Rhysand thought he would never get to enjoy. Easy, peaceful nights under the sky of Velaris was one; another, was watching his children run around with his brothers’ and cousin’s children, their laughter the only sound for miles.

There are so many times when Rhysand wakes in the middle of the night, heart in his throat as he listens. Listens for his children’s breathing, listens for Feyre’s. Listens for the sound of footsteps, shadowed assassins hiding in the corner waiting to take this small piece of paradise from him. Some nights he spends awake, not brave enough to sleep lest something happen.

It’s foolish, he knows. Nobody could come into their home without their permission, and both he and Feyre are some of the strongest of their kind. But the thought still lingers, the idea that someone could take those precious parts of him and ruin them forever.

His daughter, several feet away, attempts to lift both herself and her brother into the air, her wings flapping mightily while her cousin’s fly around her easily. Rhysand’s son was not gifted with the Illyrian wings--at least, as far as they know--but that doesn’t stop him from loving the sky and the wind.

Feyre calls out a warning to their daughter, her voice stern as she reminds Luna that her brother _is_ breakable, but he also notices the wind surrounding Luna, keeping her and her brother aloft better than her wings.

They don’t get many days like this, even with the realm settled in a tentative peace. Mor has her duties in the Hewn City, Azriel as Rhysand’s spy. Cassian deals with the Illyrian camps and trains as many female warriors as he can. Amren and Nesta travel more often than not, only appearing in Velaris very rarely, and Elain and Lucien spend most of their time between courts. So Rhysand eases back on his hands, the grass tickling his wrists as he watches his family and allows himself to breathe easily.

 

**49 - Hunger**

The night air is cool against Feyre’s skin, flushed from dancing. When she looks out across the water, arms braced on the edge of the railing, she feels infinite and incredible. Now that there are no conflicts, now that they are all safe, they can have so many more nights like this. They can dance with each other, drink and talk and just _be_ , and Feyre loves the prospect of it.

Rhysand lounges comfortably beside her, his arm pressed against her own. He is talking to Cassian, who stands on her other side, arm tossed easily around her shoulder. Rhysand doesn’t even give it more than a passing, heated glance before he continues speaking. They had all done their fair share of dancing tonight, sliding and moving against each other in a rhythm that came easily. Most of the night had been spent on that dance floor, and when Feyre had locked eyes with Cassian, her back pressed tight to Rhysand’s chest, Cassian’s hands hot brands on her hips, something in them had sparked.

_Only once,_ Rhysand had said through the bond, putting a voice to what she couldn’t even fathom thinking or saying aloud. But then, Rhys was good at knowing what Feyre wanted. She had grinned and slid her hands along Cassian’s sculpted forearms, and that had been that.

Now, they stand breathless and the sharp smell of nerves permeate the air, though Feyre has no idea who it is coming from.

There is this, too: the smell of sex on them, the thought of what is to come when they finally make their way back to the townhouse.

A year ago, Feyre would never have thought that her mate would suggest bringing Cassian to their bed. But late nights and early mornings have taught Feyre a lot about Rhysand, about who he was before. He has had as many male lovers as females, and Cassian has been only one of them. Always for fun, he had said when she raised an eyebrow, but the thought had stuck in her head for weeks after.

She doesn’t realize they’ve both fallen quiet until Rhysand’s arm slides around her waist. Cassian is twirling pieces of hair fallen from her updo around his fingers, tugging lightly, and she is still a little shocked when Rhysand asks, “Are you ready?”

Feyre smiles, gives the Sidra one last glance, and then nods.

 

**50 - Believe**

Here is something they do not tell you: that happiness and peace can come in the strangest of packages, but when you find them, they are yours. Yours to keep and hold, yours to love and lose.

When you were small, you imagined a life like your mother’s, with stuffy dresses and two-faced friends.

When you were bigger, you imagined a life where your stomach did not cramp from lack of food and the cottage was quiet, warm, and there was no hunting to be done, no sisters to argue with, no father to look after.

When you were broken, you imagined a life of safety and security. And when you were locked away, you imagined a key to that door that closed in front of you.

Now, you do not have to imagine a happy, peaceful life because you have found it, wrapped in a darkness that seemed suffocating and horrifying, but found that inside that inky black there was only the soft comfort of night, the warmth of starlight in your freckles.

Here is something they do not tell you: love is one of the hardest things you will ever have to do. It will tear at you and ruin you. Love makes monsters of us all, and you have fought for and died for and broken for it. For you, love is all-encompassing and breathtakingly easy.

For you, love is an easy grin, violet eyes sparking as you use your magic for good. Love is coming home to a small, worn-in house that smells like a _home._ It is believing that you deserve something so pure.

Here is something they do not tell you: happiness comes at a price, and it is always worth it.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> come yell at me on tumblr about acomaf and acotar at monkkeyslut!!!


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